A piece I was asked to write for Storizen
magazine about running into fellow authors. Link
at http://issuu.com/storizen/docs/sept2014
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There’s a certain charm associated with meeting
frien-gers – strangers who give the illusion of being friends. Strangers
because you’ve never met them personally. Friends because you’ve read about
them and read them. And you realize you’ve been so privy to this person’s
innermost thoughts, known them so intimately that meeting in person is just
akin to starting in the middle of a conversation. No introductions, no
ice-breakers. Just an immediate connection that transcends the norms of a
social meeting. I’m talking about running into fellow authors.
Madhuri and I had met up on one midweek summer evening in San Francisco about a
year back and painted the town red. Which is writer speak for ‘found a corner
table at a quiet restaurant and talked our hearts out long after most patrons
had probably turned in for the night’. We were eventually asked to leave,
politely of course, by a blonde stud boy who we were apparently holding up from
some sort of a life-threatening emergency. Our last ditch attempt to wrap up at
a coffee shop was also futile. We promised to meet again and parted ways.
If one must count on an external event to bring along some surprises, let it be
the rains. This monsoon we met again in Mumbai, a city very close to my heart.
It was an unplanned get-together. I was in for a treat watching Madhuri charm
her way with the patrons at this lively restaurant in Versova. She has a zany
energy about her, the kind that is very contagious. The entire restaurant crew
was buzzing around her at some point. As writers we give so much of ourselves
to what we write that I occasionally fear there’s nothing more left to us.
You’ve written every word you know. You’ve put every thought that has ever
crossed your mind out there. Has someone figured me out entirely by reading me?
I’d never know. With Madhuri, there’s not even a hint of that worry. She’s a
revelation every minute, seamlessly jumping from one anecdote to another,
oscillating articulately between ideas. I’ve caught up with many writers over
the years. Some, I meet regularly in various writers’ groups. The kinds I’ve
known mostly are intense, speak at their discretion, every word measured, and
you walk away knowing less about them than you did when you met them. Then
there are others who are perky, uninhibited, and sparkling conversationalists. Needless
to say, I was in good company for the evening.
With new books in both our kitties there
was a lot to catch up on. But it wasn’t just that. It was the countless other
things about the vocation that must be discussed, no holds barred; like the
opportunities and the challenges, the high notes and the pitfalls, the thrills
and the trepidations, the semblance of inspiration and the lack thereof.
There’s a mystique element to writing if you are outside looking in but like
with any other profession, only those in the same boat would nod vehemently as
you verbalize the tiniest pain-point and offer you a tissue box when you weep
like no one’s looking. It’s a cathartic relief, a joyous one.
There are myriad other things about the world we
inhabit that connect two like-minded people to each other – families, friends,
enemies, frenemies and favorites. Favorite writers, favorite books, favorite
author interviews, favorite quotes, favorite cafes to write in ; the list
is literally unending when there are two girls in the mix. Then there’s
the other favorite – favorite worst writers, the ones that make us cringe.
Dissing is fun, did I mention? It helps you digest alcohol.
Ultimately
what makes a rendezvous memorable is how much you’ve “clicked”, the connection
you’ve established, the stories you’ve shared and received and the
encouragement, the stimulus, the inspiration you’ve walked away with. I’ll
raise a glass to that… until the next time.
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